Puddles on the Plains
by MiniFruitbat
Summary: Halbarad's death on the plains. I gave up and wrote a story about canon characters. Nobody reads about nonMary Sue OCs anyways, it seems. HalbaradAragorn. You could even choose to see it as slash if you want something really clichéd.


**Puddles on the Plains**

**Notes: **_I gave up and posted a fic about canon characters. No one reads the ones about non-Mary Sue OCs, it seems, so one of my characters' deaths has been transformed into Halbarad's true passing. You could even decide to construe this as slash if you wanted to be really clich__é__d. Oh, and when Aragorn calls him his brother, it's a camaraderie thing, not literal.  
_

* * *

Feet scurried past, possibly pounding, but oddly soundless. The man was stretched across a puddle, the side of his face sunken in the depths of it. The cold water leaked into one eye, though certain instincts resolved to keep it tightly shut. Halbarad's fingers moved, splaying against the mud. Grasping? No, he told himself. That wasn't it. He tried to lever himself upright, but the pain echoing from his middle made him scream and writhe. Knees and fingers wrenched as he fought to bring himself into control.  
At last he had it. The Ranger panted across the muddy surface of the puddle, each willfully lengthened breath pushing artful ridges rippling away from him. He closed his eyes, fists balled tight and with his one good hand still clutching the last reachable dagger. 

"This one's live," pronounced a voice beyond his side. Fingers were on his neck. What was the other weight? He tried to speak, though what felt like metal in his mouth made it seem impossible. He spat a wad and tried not to feel foolish for the trail of it clinging to his cheek. It could not be licked away.  
The fallen Ranger opened his eyes, remembering too late the flooding puddle. It did not feel any colder now, though there was a pinkish tinge to the smooth brown color. The bloodstained bubble of his spit floated past his chin.  
"So get him up," said another from higher up. Halbarad could only see the speaker's legs, so that one must be standing. Gloved fingers searched for strongholds along his body. Strange how every limb could feel so distant. Then they tried to raise him and he struck.  
"No!"  
Surprised, the two men relinquished their grips as the Dúnedan's dagger came swinging past. He grunted and shuffled in a new position where he lay.  
"I'll kill you," he gasped. "I will kill you if you make me feel that." He could not see their faces clearly.  
The younger one had crouched and reached again, but the other shook his head.  
"Leave it," he said, touching fingers to the boy's shoulder. "There are others."  
Halbarad laughed aloud, the shakes of that making him cry aloud once more as the two moved away.

Above was now the sky. Gray, an appropriate color. It had always seemed strange to fight a battle while the sun was shining. He rolled his head to one side, careful to strain no other muscles. The field was clearer than it had been earlier. Then there had been clashes over every yard of land. Now he knew the only human bodies near him were dead or inevitably close to such a fate. At least they did not smell yet. Further away, the fall was thicker, and from the cries he knew that that was where the wounded still lay. Others had left him to attend to them. He was glad, in a way. That left him quiet.  
Careful breathing let him ignore the pain that had to be there. A slash across a wrist to make him drop his hard-won sword, a widespread throb across his femur, a polearm through the middle. The mail had truly failed him this time. The new cradle of mud seemed cooling to a certain section on his back. Was the armor torn? Ordinary weapons could not tear chains like cloth. He was rather sure of that, but could not trust his fleeting thinking.  
The Ranger relaxed, reveling in the solitude as all the shouts and cries did nothing to affect him. He smiled faintly at the hazy sun with knowledge of the bloody pool that had since formed beyond his breast.

"My brother," someone gasped. Halbarad smiled broadly at the swimming face. He finally looked peaceful with his slowly blinking eyes.  
"You cannot have me," he croaked as his Captain and King knelt beside him.  
"What are you talking about?" Aragorn insisted, swiftly wetting his fingers from a flaccid water skin. He felt them gently across his fallen comrade's lips, bringing moisture to them at last. "What are you doing like this?" He wiped the worst of mud and trickled blood from his eyes and cheeks.  
"Don't move me," Halbarad answered dreamily. He felt lucid though he couldn't turn his head to look at the man he so admired. The empty sky was too engrossing. The Ranger Captain lifted his hand from the one puddle and slid the dagger from his helpless grip.  
"You cannot mean that."  
"I like it here."  
"You are injured, Halbarad." He said it gently.

"I know." For once there was no edge of iron in his voice. The sound seemed far too light and high for him. It truly was a different man. Another chance, perhaps. How cruel that this new incarnation would never see the world that would surely dawn.  
Why was he touching his face? Once again, Halbarad could not feel his Captain's fingers with the cracked fingernails and days of dried and unwashed blood. He was not sure he liked that. He could have pretended the touch was someone else. His cheeks tingled instead as blood loss drained him paler.  
He closed his eyes at last.  
And Aragorn wept.


End file.
